Hitler's Secret

by William Osborne

  “Well, last night at the inn, I performed a simple psychic exercise to confirm that identity.” A gust of wind sent a swirl of snow gusting around the two men. “It is a straightforward but foolproof test. All that is needed is an odic picture of the girl and one of the father.”

  “I’m not familiar with that term.”

  “Odic means a personal object, in this case a photograph that has been charged with the energy and spirit of the individual. Normally once the pendulum is set over the child it will start to spin, coming to a halt when it is placed over a picture of the father.”

  “I see,” said Heydrich. But he could feel something else coming. “What is your point?”

  “My point is simple. When I placed the pendulum over the Führer’s picture, it did not stop. It continued to spin.”

  Heydrich frowned, apprehension building in the pit of his stomach.

  “Therefore we can say with absolute certainty that the Führer is not the father of that child.” Straniak was staring at Heydrich with the zeal and conviction of his peculiar profession.

  “Not the father?” Heydrich let it sink in. Had this whole thing been a wild-goose chase?

  “There is, however, one exception to this.”

  “Go on,” said Heydrich intently, oblivious to the cold mountain wind whipping at his hair.

  But Straniak was saying nothing more. “The matter is now in your hands if you wish to pursue it.” He stepped past him hastily, suddenly anxious that he had said too much, and began his descent.

  Heydrich watched him go. Another secret best left to the mountain, perhaps? Clearly whoever Straniak was proposing was the girl’s mother was either too dangerous or possibly too scandalous for him to dare to express it out loud to Heydrich. He suddenly felt a new sense of curiosity about this strange man and remembered there was still one thing that had been nagging at the back of his mind since he had met him.

  “Herr Straniak,” Heydrich called after him.

  Straniak stopped and turned.

  “When you shook my hand …”

  “What of it?” said Straniak.

  “You looked at me in a certain way, as though …” Heydrich almost couldn’t believe he was saying this. “As though … you saw something.”

  Straniak stared back for a long moment. “I saw you in Prague, in a car, in the early morning. That is all.” He turned and started his descent once more.

  Prague? Prague? Heydrich shook his head. Then he felt a chill cross his heart. Perhaps, like the other matter, there was something more to his vision that Straniak would not speak of.

  It was well after midnight before Heydrich was summoned to an audience with the Führer. He had sped back as fast as he could to the Berghof, but other more pressing matters had apparently prevented the Führer from seeing him immediately.

  During the hours since his arrival, Heydrich had taken a hot bath, shaved, and replaced his torn and tattered uniform with a fresh one. He had eaten an excellent dinner, though he had little appetite. He remained in a state of anxiety, conscious of his failure. Now he paced outside the Berghof map room, waiting. Despite the late hour there was intense activity all around him, with secretaries coming and going and dozens of Wehrmacht and SS officers entering or leaving the room constantly. He nodded to those that he knew but did not engage in conversation. He had no intention of arousing anyone’s curiosity through polite chitchat.

  At last, just before two o’clock, he was admitted into the room. He marched straight across to the Führer. Hitler was standing, gazing over a vast map lit by pools of light.

  Heydrich came to attention, saluted, and said, “I am sorry, mein Führer, but I have failed you. I do not expect you to show any clemency or mercy in this matter, and I accept any actions you wish to take for my failure.” He had spent the last hour rehearsing the form of words he would use.

  Hitler stared at him for a long moment. He looked tired, still dressed in his habitual white shirt and thin black tie, but seemed strangely elevated.

  “Let me show you something,” he said, beckoning Heydrich forward.

  Heydrich came and stood next to his Führer, and looked down at the map. It showed the whole of the western continent: Europe, the Soviet Union all the way to Siberia, Mongolia, and China. The current border between the Soviet Union and the Third Reich was marked by a thick red line. Behind that line, from the Baltic coast to the Caucasus, had been arranged scores of small wooden blocks, of various shapes and colors. Each one represented a different element of the mighty Wehrmacht and SS fighting machine.

  The two men gazed at the map in silence. Heydrich waited.

  “The order I have just given will change the course of human history forever.”

  “Yes, Führer.” Heydrich stared at the expanse of land stretching all the way to China.

  “Five million men will create a new Fatherland for us that will last a thousand years.” Hitler scanned the map. “How did Hess think by betraying his country with the secret of one little child he could possibly alter this fact?”

  Heydrich remained silent.

  “Today was her birthday.” Hitler took off his reading glasses. “Tell me, was her death quick?”

  “Yes, Führer.”

  He looked back at the map, then glanced back distractedly at Heydrich. “Thank you, Reinhard, for your service in this matter.”

  “But, Führer —” Heydrich began.

  Hitler held up his hand. “The child was not supposed to exist. And your real work will commence now.” He glanced up at the wall clock. It was 2:15 A.M. “Operation Barbarossa has begun.”

  Otto and Leni made their way down a limestone path beneath tall cypress trees to the jetty. They had driven back from the mountains to the villa by the lake in the morning, rested in the afternoon, and Durand had re-dressed their wounds and made them a delicious tea. MacPherson had hoped to get in the air as soon as it was dark, but dense fog had settled on the surface of the lake when the sun went down, and only now, in the small hours of the morning, had it lifted enough to allow them to take off. Otto had to use a walking stick to help him with his injured leg. He limped along, and Leni took his arm a couple of times when he stumbled.

  Soon they could see the outline of the plane moored outside the boathouse. A towline was attached to a launch. They stopped and waited for Admiral MacPherson and Durand to catch up with them. The little coal of tobacco in the bowl of MacPherson’s pipe glowed in the darkness.

  “All set?” asked MacPherson gruffly.

  Leni and Otto nodded.

  “My goodness, you two deserve a medal.” Durand thrust out her hand and shook first Leni’s hand and then Otto’s, before leaning forward to kiss Otto on the cheek. “And so good-looking.” Otto felt his cheeks hot against the cool night air.

  “Quickly now,” ordered MacPherson. He helped the children climb up the ladder into the rear cockpit. They stepped down into it and dropped through a hatch in the floor to the cabin. Otto glanced back, and in the darkness it seemed to him that MacPherson and the woman were embracing. He looked away and hurriedly followed Leni down the ladder. It was dark in the cramped cabin, a little light seeping through the small windows.

  After a minute or two MacPherson stuck his head through the hatch. “What do you think of this? More comfortable than the way you came over?” He was trying to be cheery, but Otto and Leni didn’t smile.

  There were three narrow canvas cots bolted to the floor and in front of them a large storage locker containing thick flying jackets and oxygen breathing equipment. Both Otto and Leni stared at the third cot and thought about the girl it was meant for.

  “Get yourselves squared away,” MacPherson said before disappearing from sight.

  Leni and Otto lay down on the cots and fastened the safety belts across their hips. A moment or two later the launch’s engine rose in pitch and then the seaplane was being towed out into the lake.

  After about five minutes, Otto and Leni felt the towline give and the plane
glided to a halt. Then the engine fired and the propeller turned. The cabin was filled with a vast throbbing sound as the revolutions built, vibrating the whole airframe, and finally the plane was moving, gathering speed, bouncing over the swell like a speedboat, shaking the cots.

  And then they were airborne. There was no more juddering. Only smooth air, and the sound of equipment shifting and sliding as the plane climbed steeply away from the lake. It banked hard to the right and for an instant Otto saw the surface of the Bodensee in the moonlight, like a quivering mass of mercury.

  Somewhere high above them, to the north, were six Spitfires fitted with long-range fuel tanks, waiting to shepherd them back to England. Angels of a different kind. Guardian angels. And when — if — they got there, who knew what the future held?

  Otto and Leni lay still in the darkness of the cabin. In Otto’s left hand was his father’s watch. Slowly he reached out with his freshly bandaged hand and found Leni’s. Gently they interlaced their fingers.

  “It’s Rebecca,” she said quietly.

  Otto smiled in the darkness. “And mine is Conrad.”

  It is important to separate fact from fiction. While inspired by real events and historical characters, this story is a work of fiction and does not claim to be historically accurate or portray factual events or relationships.

  There is no evidence to support the idea that Adolf Hitler ever fathered a child, and Angelika is a made-up character. So, too, are the characters of Otto and Leni, although during the Second World War there were thousands of displaced children from Germany, Austria, Czechoslovakia, and Poland, separated from their families and living in England.

  Admiral MacPherson is also a fictional character, although the London Controlling Section was a real organization, set up to devise and coordinate military deception and covert plans during the Second World War.

  WINSTON CHURCHILL led Great Britain from 1940 until 1945. His “bulldog” spirit seemed to summarize the mood of the British people even during the bad times, such as the events at DUNKIRK. For many people, his stubborn refusal to admit defeat during the Second World War has given him a reputation few other politicians have ever achieved. He died in 1965.

  RUDOLF HESS was Adolf Hitler’s deputy in the Nazi Party in the early 1940s. On the eve of war with the Soviet Union, he flew solo to Scotland in an attempt to negotiate peace with the United Kingdom, but was arrested and became a prisoner of war. Afterwards he was sentenced to life imprisonment. He died in 1987.

  Despite the betrayal of Hess, Adolf Hitler commenced OPERATION BARBAROSSA, the invasion of the Soviet Union, with over four and half million troops. It was the largest military operation in human history, but its subsequent failure marked the turning point in the Third Reich’s fortunes.

  MARTIN BORMANN succeeded Hess as Hitler’s gatekeeper and confidant. He remained with him to the very end inside the Führerbunker in Berlin and was one of the last to escape following Hitler’s suicide on April 30, 1945. It is generally believed that he fled to Argentina.

  REINHARD HEYDRICH was Lieutenant General of the SS and chief of the Reich Main Security Office. He was attacked in Prague on May 27, 1942, by a British-trained team of Czech and Slovak soldiers sent to kill him. He died from his injuries a week later. Historians regard him as the darkest figure within the Nazi elite; even Hitler christened him “The Man with the Iron Heart.”

  LUDWIG STRANIAK was a German mystic and a pendulum dowser. He was also an architect and astrologer and was used for his skills by the German military, not necessarily willingly.

  HEINRICH MÜLLER continued to the end of the war as head of the Gestapo. Like Bormann he disappeared after Hitler’s suicide. He has never been found.

  I could not have written this novel without the love, help, and encouragement of a great many people.

  Firstly, my parents, who never batted an eyelid when I gave up my respectable job as a young barrister and jumped on a plane to Hollywood to become a screenwriter. I’m sure deep down they thought it was a foolhardy decision, but they have never shown me anything but unwavering support. Both of them served in the Second World War, my father in the Indian Army and my mother as a Wren. In 1941, when this story is set, my father was twenty-three and my mother was nineteen.

  I must also thank my brother, Alec, and sister, Kate, for all the dressing up as soldiers and shooting at each other that we did as children. I think it was then that my interest in the Second World War took hold.

  Love and thanks also to my wife, Debra, whom I adore and who is always prepared to tell me the truth about my writing, even if it hurts; and to my children, Constance, Dulcie, Edgar, and Frank, who inspired this book and to whom it is dedicated.

  And of course, so many others who have helped along the way, not least, Anita, Ivan, Virginia, Nelda, and Guilio. I must also mention Foggy and Mistie, particularly Foggy, whose regular disappearances for hours on end into the woods of Hampstead Heath allow me the time to stand and think about story structure.

  Turning to the book itself, I must thank: Judy, who encouraged me all the way and read the earliest draft with the sharpest of eyes; Michael Foster, esteemed agent and old friend, who read the manuscript on the spot and championed it from the get-go; Rowan, my other esteemed agent, who calmly and professionally found a home for it; my editors, Imogen and Rachel, who expertly cut and polished the rough diamond they were given; and everyone else at the Chicken House who have embraced the book and been wonderful; and lastly, Barry, the big cheese, who made it happen.

  WILLIAM OSBORNE became a lawyer after graduating from Cambridge University, but his career took a sharp turn when he switched to screenwriting in Hollywood. He has worked on more than sixty movies, including The Mummy and GoldenEye. Hitler’s Secret, which was longlisted for the prestigious Carnegie Medal in the United Kingdom, is his first novel. He lives in Norfolk, England.

  Text copyright © 2013 by William Osborne

  All rights reserved. Published by Chicken House, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. CHICKEN HOUSE, SCHOLASTIC, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  www.scholastic.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2012 as Hitler’s Angel by Chicken House, 2 Palmer Street, Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS.

  www.doublecluck.com

  While inspired by real events and historical characters, this novel is a work of fiction and does not claim to be historically accurate or portray factual events or relationships. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously, and any real personalities included in the book and interactions with such real personalities are the result of the author’s imagination and purely fictional. Such real personalities or their representatives did not authorize this book and are not otherwise involved with this book in any way.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Osborne, William (William Hanslow), 1960–

  [Hitler’s angel]

  Hitler’s secret / William Osborne. — 1st American ed.

  p. cm.

  Originally published as: Hitler’s angel; Frome, England : Chicken House, (c) 2012.

  Summary: In June 1941, Otto and Leni, two young refugees from the Nazis living in England, are sent on a secret mission to Bavaria, to extract a young girl attending a summer camp, and who may hold the key to the war.

  ISBN 978-0-545-49646-9 1. World War, 1939–1945 — Refugees — Juvenile fiction. 2. World War, 1939–1945 — Juvenile fiction. 3. Undercover operations — Juvenile fiction. [1. World War, 1939–1945 — Fiction. 2. Refugees — Fiction. 3. Undercover operations — Fiction. 4. Secrets — Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.O8645Hit 2013

  823.914–dc23

  2012040706

  First American edition, October 2013

  Cover art by Steve Stone

  Cover design by Yaffa Jaskoll

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-57651-2

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ican Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.